I assumed that, despite being in my mid-30s at the time, the
stress of my job was placing stress on my heart. The day it all came crashing down was in the
summer, late on a Friday afternoon. I
felt that there was a sumo-wrestler sitting on my chest and I could no longer
breathe. I drove myself to the emergency
room, not even cluing in at that moment that were I able to drive a car the
pains were likely not due to heart strain.
I was immediately wheeled into the cardiac room of Bonner
General Hospital. Lesson learned, you
tell people your chest hurts and before you can say “there’s no place like
home” you’re on a table, stripped to your undies & hooked up to every
monitoring device within reach.
Not a heart attack.
That’s what they told me. Your
heart is fine. Seriously? But I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. No, you are having an anxiety attack. A what?
That’s ludicrous I thought. I’ve
never had that happen before. They
showed me the tape from the heart monitoring device. No problems.
It’s your brain. I couldn’t
process. They sent me home and told me
to contact my GP for an appointment.
A week later I was in her office and she confirmed that it
was anxiety. How was I feeling now? The same.
She wrote a prescription for Xanax and suggested I might give that a try
when things got too bad. I never did.
Instead, I simply changed jobs. I
figured the root of my anxiety was the stress of my job and for a time it
helped, as did the regular exercise I started.
I wish I could say that things got better. They didn’t.
I went from full blown anxiety to total depression in a matter of
months. It got so bad I remember telling
my husband that maybe it would be better for our family if I were dead. This is not a joke. I remember it was in Ponderay, Idaho, just
five minutes from the Walmart on our grocery shopping trip. It was a sunny day and I remember feeling
relief about getting that off my chest.
At the time my husband was incredulous, and asked if I were
serious and really thought that was true.
My gut check told me that yes, I did.
I felt I was a terrible mother, terrible wife and terrible at my
job. I was miserable in our town and in
my job (yes, this was after taking a new job that I ultimately LOVED).
Over time he began to see that I was slipping. My thoughts about my inadequacies as a human
being took dominance over any positive thoughts I could have had. The mental tug of war between the angel and
the devil was exhausting.
I became disengaged from everything and my anxiety came
back. At the time I did not recognize
that trying to drown my anxiety with alcohol was amplifying my depression. I can see clearly now.
One Saturday, as almost every Saturday, I drove the mile
long bridge from Sagle to Sandpoint for a grocery store trip and I saw a
semi-truck coming from the other direction.
I clearly remember thinking to myself “I wish that truck would slide on
the ice and push me into the icy waters below.
Then everything would be OK.”
That was, in that moment, my lowest point. That evening, after a verbal altercation with
my husband he said the words I needed most to hear: you need to talk to a
therapist. Thankfully he recognized that
my behavior was not directed at him, but a product of a mental imbalance I was
incapable of getting myself out of. On
Monday morning I made an appointment and by that Friday I was on Lexapro.
It took weeks, months really, for me to return to
normal. But I will admit to feeling the
clouds lift even after just about a week on my meds. I continued therapy for several months until
my therapist moved to Montana. I
continued on Lexapro from 2008-2011.
Under doctor’s supervision in June 2011 I slowly ended my dependency on
antidepressants. And it was good and I
am OK.
The hardest part of being on meds is the stigma that is
attached to them. People always assume
you can “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” which is absolute bullshit when
you’re depressed unless you can turn your bootstraps into a noose. Mental illness is a real thing and it’s worth
as much empathy, support and understanding as cancer or pneumonia. And yes, sometimes good medicine.
Obviously I’ve decided to share my story again because of
the recent news. I was saddened to see
the passing of two notable celebrities in two days. And I am sorry for their families. At the same time I am grateful that this has
caused a light to shine on the dark places of our lives. Yet people every day grapple with mental
health issues and it’s something that is bigger than Kate Spade and Anthony
Bourdain.
In two days from now the news media will have some other
tragedy or political scandal to talk about, Kate & Anthony will be a
memory.
Please don’t forget them or the millions of other people who
struggle from mental illness. Please
keep the conversation going on forever.
Tell your story without shame.
Hold out your hand.
Listen.
Engage.
Support.
Care.
Please.
Mental illness comes in so many shapes and forms. There’s no shame in having it and no shame in
getting help. And no shame in talking
about it.
I share my story and I hope others will share theirs. And let’s continue to shine a light on all
those dark places so we can work to remove the stigma that mental health is
simply “all in our heads.”
